


Amid Shadows

by w_anderingheart



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Violence, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/w_anderingheart/pseuds/w_anderingheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no face to the name 'D.O.', but Kai has always wondered what kind of person can single-handedly shake Seoul's underground, organized crime ring. (hitmen!au) (mafia!au)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posting. original post date: 140906.

The night begins in Machine, which only means it’s going to be a long night, then.

His index finger taps an uneven, staccato beat against a glass of club soda that he doesn’t bother to drink. He hadn’t ordered it. The female bartender had brought it over to him as he had slid into the farthest circle booth, the usual seat, barely batting an eye at his simple hoodie and light wash denim, even though it’s not the typical look for someone who might frequent a club like this. Jongin tips her, then, for her troubles. She dips her head, their eyes not even meeting.

Junmyeon is late. Three minutes, as Jongin consults his lighted cell phone screen. Tardiness is rather uncharacteristic of Junmyeon. Jongin leans back into the curve of the booth, arms and legs crossing. He should be at home, studying. It’s exam season soon. But things like that aren’t considered very pressing matters. Not to Junmyeon. Not in this line of work.

The club is dark and Jongin is in the back, but he can still make out the slim, pretty figure dancing across Machine’s small stage. There’s a natural, controlled curl to Baekhyun’s thin lips. He can capture whole crowds with just that barely-there smile. He’s mastered the art of body rolls and smoldering gazes, commands the attention of the entire club; even Jongin, who has seen all of Baekhyun’s routines countless times that he could probably do them himself.

Baekhyun bends down, on his hands and knees, single spotlight following him, as he accepts the wad of cash from a man in the front. Baekhyun leans forward, his mouth moving, inaudible, against the shell of the man’s ear. The general noise of the audience loudens, excitedly, with more eager shouts of Baekhyun’s name as Baekhyun moves back on his feet, sashaying away, swinging his hips. Jongin sighs.

“I wish I could be calling you out for better news.” Junmyeon is dressed cleanly, the way he always is. Black button up, black slacks, pale blond hair a dim contrast in the club lighting. He slides into the booth, on Jongin’s left.

“I wish you weren’t calling me out at all,” Jongin says. He uncrosses his arms, elbows out, resting on the table. “If you don’t have a job for me, I need to get going.”

“You rarely take jobs, even when I do have one for you,” Junmyeon points out. His hand laces around the untouched drink, taking a sip. “Did you think I poisoned this or something?” he asks, lightly.

Jongin shrugs. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Come on. We’re brothers.”

“Half.”

“Jongin—“

“If this is business, I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Business,” Junmyeon repeats, nodding. It’s always business, though. Between them. Junmyeon pushes up the sleeves of his button up. Jongin sees the tiny, cursive string of Latin words tattooed across his inner forearm. It’s the only part of Junmyeon even remotely indicative that he’s not some prim and proper doctor or lawyer or government official.

He has a pallor to his skin that is a complete 360 to Jongin’s bronze complexion; an almond shape to his eyes that are soft around the edges. His smile is polite, almost friendly. Unless you catch the wrong side of him. Then somehow, the same smile can make your blood run cold and have you shaking in your shoes. Jongin figures that that’s one way to be the leader of a gang—one way to secure El Dorado as one of the city’s most dangerous.

“Tell me again why we’re meeting at Machine,” Jongin says, mouth turning down at the edges. From the crowd around the stage, people are still whistling and hollering Baekhyun’s name even though he’s already exited and the generic dubstep is back. “Can’t say I’m a fan of a club that looks sketchier than Skid Row.”

Technically, it’s a redundant question because Jongin knows why. Machine is El Dorado’s. Junmyeon owns it, and it’s comfortably in the middle of their turf. They always meet here, even though Jongin still thinks the two of them stand out more here than they would in a coffee shop.

“I needed to speak to Chanyeol,” Junmyeon replies.

“About?”

“About the same thing I have to tell you, I suppose.” Junmyeon’s lips press together in a line. He stares at Jongin, and it’s not sympathy in his look. Definitely not. There’s no such thing as sympathy left in either of them, really. It’s not even apologetic, but it’s something. As close as you could probably get to it.

“Which is what?” Jongin is fidgety, resuming his impatient tapping against the cool, metal tabletop.

Junmyeon crosses his legs. Jongin can see the outline of his hand gun, secured at his side, but Jongin doesn’t know why Junmyeon carries one. There are very few occasions when Junmyeon’s ever had to use it himself. That’s what he keeps Jongin around for, really.

“El Dorado lost an arms deal with Japan,” Junmyeon begins. Jongin curses.

“I know. It’s a major loss. We’ve taken a big hit.” Junmyeon downs the rest of the club soda. He could probably be fuming and rattled, but he’s always been good at hiding it. Jongin can’t say the same for himself.

“How  _big_  of a hit are we talking?”

Junmyeon shakes his head, leaning back. “Enough that Chanyeol won’t be getting paid extra for his troubles, and Baekhyun won’t work the XOXO room for a while.” He pushes his hair back, on an exhale. “A long while.”

“Fuck.” Jongin wrings his hands.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Junmyeon says. It’s not smug. Junmyeon never is. His tone is still calm. “Whenever I needed a hit man, I always offered you the kills before I offered them to Sehun. You should have taken more than one kill in the past year, because now your money is running out, isn’t it?” It’s not a question.

“It’s f—“ Jongin starts, then stops. It’s not fine. All he has left is going towards his college classes. Even after his little sister picked up the job at that café, even after downsizing to a smaller apartment, there’s always just barely enough. He re-aims his point. “You know, I don’t want to make a fucking  _career_  of popping people’s brains.”

Junmyeon’s irritation is starting to show, but he remains relaxed—shoulders set in a casual slump. He tilts his head a fraction, eyes meeting Jongin’s searchingly. There it is, Jongin thinks. That look that is just as serene as any of his other looks, except somehow, when Junmyeon wants it to, it pierces. Chills. Accuses you of something you’re not sure you did. “You don’t get to claim you have morals, Kai. None of us have morals. Don’t pretend.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jongin grits, jaw clenching.

“You may as well have,” Junmyeon counters, smoothly. He places his hands over his knee, one on top of the other, neatly. “But here’s the situation, and you’ll have to deal with it: as of right now, we’re dealing with a profit loss. We’ll have to re-think weapons buyers now that we don’t have Japan.”

“Narcotics?”

Junmyeon nods. “We’re still pushing drugs, but less people are buying.”

Jongin fingers the zipper of his hoodie. It’s hot in here. He should probably take the hoodie off if he doesn’t want to go home smelling like sweat and alcohol. “How is that possible?”

From the door behind the bar counter, Baekhyun emerges. He’s dressed in an obnoxiously sparkling tank top, cutting low so that it dips into his chest, exposes thin collarbones. He comes up behind Chanyeol, who’s mixing drinks with a bartender.

Junmyeon swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. The slightest chink in a calm armour. “EXO is expanding their turf.”

“ _Fuck_  that,” Jongin bursts, groaning. He had heard rumours, here and there. But he’s careful to not believe anything until he hears it from Kim Junmyeon himself, who spews only facts and has a built-in ability to filter out bullshit. “Wait. Do you mean, onto El Dorado turf?” Jongin clarifies. “If that’s the case, why isn’t this more of a problem than it already is?”

By which, Jongin really means  _why has no one pulled the trigger on anyone yet, then?_

“Not exactly,” Junmyeon says, “but indirectly. They were the ones who managed to somehow make a better deal with our Japanese arms buyers. They took Japan right from us.” He clicks his tongue. “And obviously China is out of the question for us.” It always has been, Jongin knows. EXO is run by Chinese, to begin with. They have China in the bag, and El Dorado has never risked trying to impede on that. Junmyeon’s a sensible guy. “And about narcotics, which is a market we usually dominate, Chanyeol tells me that he highly suspects our loss of sales there is because EXO is trying to push their drugs across a wider range of people, forcing us out.”

Jongin scowls. “But drugs—everyone buys from  _us_.” His eyes widen then, faltering, as if he’s made a mistake and caught it too late. He clears his throat. “From…  _El Dorado_ , I mean.”

Junmyeon smiles at him, wanly. “Well, EXO is giving us a run for our money.” From the bar, Chanyeol and Baekhyun are making their way to their circle booth. “Like the fuckers they are.”

Jongin keeps his mouth closed because he agrees with  _that_  comment, at least.  _Like the fuckers they are_. If El Dorado is the gang that the police can never pin down, then EXO is the gang the police don’t know they’re even chasing.

Baekhyun, in all his heavily-perfumed glory, takes his place on Jongin’s right, their thighs and hips pressing together. Chanyeol scoots in beside Baekhyun. They, Jongin thinks, are the kind of people that don’t stick out like sore thumbs in a place like Machine. Chanyeol, with the wine red hair, and the black spikes in his ears. Baekhyun, with the clothes that make him light up like a disco ball and show as much of his glowing skin as one can without being considered completely naked.

“There is a lot of space in this booth, Byun,” Jongin quips, dryly, sliding away from Baekhyun’s touch. Baekhyun looks over at him through his glittering eyeliner, a cheeky grin across his pretty face. “Just working your nerves, Kai,” he replies, delicate fingers moving up to fix his brown hair gently.

“I was just filling Kai in,” Junmyeon says, “about the profit loss.”

Chanyeol sighs. “Yeah, well, I guess Kai’s got it worse.” He shifts, looking past Baekhyun at Jongin. “I have a nice, steady flow from runnin’ Machine, and Baekhyun’s still got his dancing—“

“ _Dancing_ ,” echoes Jongin, with a scoff. Baekhyun flicks Jongin’s thigh.

“—but what’s the plan for you, Kai?” Chanyeol asks. The question is loaded, even if Chanyeol doesn’t know it is. Jongin has never been shy about the fact that he does not like what he does, but he depends on the money he gets. He needs it. When Junmyeon had called him tonight to meet, he had hoped it was because Junmyeon had another target for him. The apartment rent has to be paid in two weeks. He’s screwed, to put it lightly.

“I don’t know. What  _is_ the plan?” Jongin says, turning to Junmyeon. Jongin is the one who looks like their dad—dark skinned, toned physique. But underneath it all, El Dorado was always meant to be passed on to Junmyeon.

Their father had had both the look and the brains of a gang leader, before he was shot dead. That had been a good ten years ago, Junmyeon being barely twenty, but more than ready to take over. He never had the look, sure, but Junmyeon sure as hell had the brains.

Jongin never wanted to lead, anyways. El Dorado is a life he commits to out of some human obligation called ‘family.’ Whatever that means. He figures everyone’s got a different definition of it.

“The plan is to get back the money we’ve lost, and to make sure we never lose more,” Junmyeon says, simply. “If EXO is expanding, we’ll expand even farther. If they’re invading on our deals, we’ll invade on theirs.” His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. “We just need to make the right decisions. Be strategic. Kris Wu is the kind of person that thinks with his gun. Those are the dumbest kinds of people.”

Junmyeon is a firm believer in that—why be violent, if you can get the same thing with words? Much cleaner. Jongin knows it doesn’t make his brother softer. It’s the opposite. If anything, Junmyeon is an even more dangerous kind of person: he’s smart.

“The real question,” Jongin cuts in, sliding even more to his left as Baekhyun attempts to throw an arm around Jongin’s shoulders, “is how Minseok didn’t catch this before it happened.”

Baekhyun pulls his arm back like he’s been burned. Chanyeol actually flinches, and then he’s confused. Junmyeon rolls his eyes.

“What?” Jongin presses. “This is why we sent Minseok to EXO, incognito, in the first place, isn’t it? To feed us information. And in my opinion, a plan to fuck up our arms deals seems like some  _important_  information—big information that Minseok should have caught and been able to tell us about.”

“They found him out three weeks ago,” says Junmyeon, sharply. He waves his hand at the shift in Jongin’s expression. “He’s fine. He managed to escape—somehow. Nerves of fucking steel, that guy. But EXO is still on edge about him. They’re searching for him. They knew he was ours—that we had an informant. I have a feeling that’s why Kris Wu decided to take Japan from us in the first place. Just because he was plain pissed off.”

“Which,” Baekhyun chimes in, folding his arms across his chest, “you would know, Kai, if you actually made a damn effort to work for El Dorado more often than once in a fucking blue moon.”

Three weeks ago. Jongin does feel like a dick. But only a little because Baekhyun’s being an asshole about it. “How did that happen? Minseok’s Mandarin is flawless.”

Junmyeon shakes his head. “It was the stupidest slip up. Left his wallet behind at a poker game and they saw his driver’s license, health card, all that stuff. They knew something was wrong, obviously, when they found out he definitely wasn’t a Beijing native named Xiumin.”

“Where is he now?”

“Safe house. Chanyeol’s set him up in one of his employee’s places, laying low.” Junmyeon nods towards the female bartender. She looks over at them, and then away quickly when she catches Junmyeon’s eyes. Chanyeol had always said that he had a few employees that knew how to stay tight-lipped with a little cash. Chanyeol gets paid, as well, for his odd jobs. For keeping quiet, as he runs Machine. It’s the same way Junmyeon can solidify a deal with a client by first handing them over to Baekhyun, who knows how to indulge them using his fiery personality, a few drinks, or a lap dance. (Baekhyun dubs it ‘the full Machine experience’; all the magic happening in the XOXO room.)

That’s the general strategy. The usual one. But for the moment, Jongin figures it’ll have to be re-worked. They don’t have money now to spare to buy discretion or guarantee clean deals. It’ll be harder, especially if EXO has it out for them.

“So you’re sure all this profit loss is definitely because of EXO?” Jongin asks. He pulls his elbows back from the table, fighting the urge to bounce his legs. It’s a habit that makes him look nervous and jittery. Which he’s not. He’s a hit man. Hit men don’t know what nerves are.

“Yes, Kai. What are you implying?” Junmyeon replies, ever patient.

“I’m not  _implying_  anything,” Jongin shoots back. He's trying to sound nonchalant. “I’m just saying you need to be sure about the problem of a situation if you want to solve it properly.”

Next to Jongin, Baekhyun is rolling his eyes. Chanyeol is the only one who nods, amiably. “I know what you’re trying to say,” he says, “but it’s definitely EXO. I’ve talked to all our sources in Japan.”

Jongin bites the inside of his cheek. Junmyeon seems to notice. Of course he does. He doesn’t miss a thing. He smells emotions like they’re perfume. When Jongin was still in high school, he wondered for a while if Junmyeon was a lie detector from all the excuses he never believed when Jongin would come to meetings late.

“What are you thinking?” Junmyeon says, deadpan, like he knows what Jongin is going to say. And Jongin figures, he probably does. Cue Junmyeon’s mild-mannered look again, boring holes into Jongin’s soul.

Jongin looks away. “It could be…” the name escapes him. He snaps his fingers. “What’s his name again?”

Junmyeon sighs. “It’s not D.O.”

“Ah, yes. D.O.,” echoes Jongin.

“What the fuck is a D.O.?” asks Baekhyun.

“D.O. is a hit man,” Chanyeol explains.

“For who?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Jongin says. “For… no one. Or rather, for anyone. He’s, like, freelance.”

It’s an odd way to describe a job with a gun. “Okay,” Baekhyun drawls, long fingers drumming against his bicep. “Why are we talking about him? Do we know him?”

“No one knows him,” says Chanyeol. “He’s a total ghost name.”

Junmyeon clears his throat, pointedly. Everyone straightens. “Kai thinks every business problem is D.O.’s fault,” he says, calmly. He says it like Jongin is a child who still believes in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. Jongin rolls his eyes. Junmyeon makes him sound petulant, but Jongin is just curious. D.O. is an infamous name, especially for a hit man and hit men aren’t  _supposed_  to have a reputation. That’s not how the job works. Having a reputation in this line of work is obnoxiously pretentious—not to mention dumb—in Jongin’s opinion.

Then, there’s also the fact that not a single soul seems to have ever met D.O. His name makes its way around the underground only once in a while, but whenever Jongin does hear the name, it’s always about how the guy “ _fucked up this gang”_  or “ _stole from that gang._ ”

“He’s notorious for messing up a lot of gang business deals. Offers clean and efficient kills for a lowered price, but then asks for something else as well. That sort of thing. He capitalizes on established organized crime rings, and just butts in,” Junmyeon says.

“Sounds like a douche bag,” Baekhyun offers, placidly.

Junmyeon shrugs. “Sure. But a douche bag that’s never bothered us, and I haven’t heard his name whispered around the streets in a long time, so we shouldn’t worry. Like Chanyeol said, he keeps on the very, very down low. A shadow in the night.”

From the pocket of his denim, Jongin’s phone vibrates against his thigh. The caller ID says it’s his sister, but he can’t take her call now—not with Baekhyun right next to him, who’s bound to start hollering profanities just to spite him, or with Junmyeon on his other side, a secret half-brother Jongin will never let her meet for obvious reasons. It’s also too loud in the club.

He lets it ring out. A missed call alert pops up onto the screen, followed by a text message.

**Hi oppa. Tried calling. just in case you come home late and i don’t get to tell you… i lost the job at the coffee place. im really sorry. rent isn’t due soon is it? : (**

He pockets the phone, both hands coming up to wipe the fatigue from his face.

“Kai,” Junmyeon says. He unfolds his hands from his lap and Jongin can see his tattoo again. Jongin has never asked what it translates to, and he doesn’t really care anymore, although as a teenager, he had wondered sometimes. “I’ll need you to be someplace tomorrow.”

 

 

-

 

 

The Black Pearl is not like Machine.

Machine has the run-down, gritty, odd look to it—located somewhere along the edge of Hongdae, just busy enough to not be considered a hole-in-the-wall place. But it’s relatively small—dark and cramped inside—and the kind of club you would  _expect_  to be secretly run by a gang; a club that’s sketchy, rough, and questionable even on its exterior. It’s another reason Jongin doesn’t particularly like it; he always half anticipates a police officer to stroll in every time he’s there. He’s surprised it hasn’t happened yet, really.

The Black Pearl is EXO’s turf. Jongin’s never been, but it’s a place so popular that he’s heard of it, anyways. It’s hard to miss either way, though, smack dab in the heart of Gangnam-gu—glitzy and boasting three stories.

It’s both risky and safe, owning such a large establishment in such a mainstream location. The risk being, when you’re so high up, if you fall, it’s much harder; like being very close to lime light, when you’re only supposed to ever be in the shadows.

But unlike Machine, The Black Pearl is all clean around the edges; guests usually of Gangnam’s highest of status.

EXO is like that—preferring to hide in plain sight. Within luxury. With their chain of high-end clubs and five star hotels, it’s either the dumbest front for a gang Jongin’s ever seen, or the smartest.

The line is long outside and Jongin would have usually figured out a way to jump it, maybe sweet talk the bouncer, but he promised he’d stay under the radar. A quick in and out.

He’s here tonight because Kris Wu himself is supposed to be in. It’s not a usual thing, apparently. He usually has a right-hand man who carries out his work for him and Kris Wu only comes to The Black Pearl when he wants to meet clients himself.

“One of the last things Minseok had heard before he fled from EXO,” Junmyeon had told Jongin last night before Jongin had left Machine, “is that Kris Wu is hiring a hit man. Personally. He should be meeting them tomorrow at his fancy club.”

“He’s hiring?” Jongin had asked. “That’s a complete waste of his time. Doesn’t he have his own hit man?”

“Yeah,” Junmyeon replied. “Minseok said his name is Huang Zitao, but he’s been injured pretty badly.”

It didn’t make sense. “How badly does he need someone killed if he’s going out of his way to get a hit man?”

Junmyeon smoothed the non-existent wrinkles from his black button down. “That’s the question.”

The club’s name is lit up on neon signs, big pink block letters in English, and underneath in Chinese characters. Tonight, Jongin is dressed for The Black Pearl. Black slacks, folded at the ends. A crisp, off-white button up, open collar. He’s borrowed one of Junmyeon’s silver watches so that he’s a perfect balance of put together and slightly imposing. He flashes his ID at the bouncer, who barely looks Jongin over before he nods, letting him pass. Where Baekhyun is someone who stands out for his job, Jongin is someone who can blend in. Everyone has their specialties.

Inside, the music is less assaulting than Machine’s. Less obnoxious. The club is cast in a dim, pink glow; disco ball turning slowly to make the place sparkle in floating lights. Jongin makes his way to the bar. It’s the only place you can really go to in a club when you’re alone.

“You serve anything with Stolichnaya?” Jongin leans forward, elbows on the counter, with the easiness of any rich businessman after a long day of work.

“Comin’ right up,” the bartender says.

Junmyeon’s orders for Jongin had been vague. Without Minseok, El Dorado can’t keep tabs on EXO’s movements—the kind of deals they’re making, their plans. And that’s something Junmyeon can’t afford to not know. So tonight, Jongin is supposed to be blending in, keeping eyes and ears peeled for any hush-hush conversations.

Easier said than done, of course.

The bartender slides Jongin his drink. Jongin’s ‘thank you’ becomes a mumble as he brings the glass to his lips. The bass of the club music pounds in time to his headache. Jongin pinches the bridge of his nose. Junmyeon isn’t even paying him for his troubles tonight. He can’t, obviously. Not with the profit loss. He has no choice, and neither does Jongin.

Junmyeon had handed him just enough cash for admission and a few drinks. Jongin had felt oddly like a teenager getting an allowance, scowling as he had pocketed the money. But he knew it’d be problematic to go into such a huge club, alone, and just sit there doing nothing. So much for subtlety.

Jongin glances up to the second floor. It doesn’t look much different from where he is now, on the main level. But the third floor, he can see, has rooms. Bingo.

“Hey, there,” Jongin calls. The bartender turns to him. He’s definitely Korean, not Chinese. That’s a good sign. Jongin looks him up and down and decides he’s strictly a club employee. EXO wouldn’t keep their actual members behind the bar, serving drinks. “Are cigarettes all right in here?”

He’s an older looking guy, rugged beard showing some gray along with his sideburns. He smiles. “Go for it.”

Jongin takes out his pack, lighting one. He hopes the man doesn’t notice the pack is less than half used. Jongin’s not actually much of a smoker. A social smoker, maybe. Whatever it’s called. It’s really for show, when he needs a conversation starter, like he does right now. Or when he’s carrying out a job, helps keep his fingers steady on the trigger.

He holds the pack out, and the guy shakes his head good-naturedly. “I can’t be caught puffin’ while I’m workin’, but thanks.”

“Suit yourself,” Jongin says, pocketing it. The bartender passes him an ashtray from behind the counter. Jongin dips his head in reply.

Twisting a little in his seat, Jongin nods towards the upper levels. Casual, like he’s merely looking for small talk. “Is there more fun to be found up there?”

The bartender chuckles, rolling his sleeves up. No tattoos that Jongin can see. He brings out a clean cloth to wipe down his drinks station. “Sure seems like it, I suppose,” he says, and then shrugs. “I just work the bar down here, so I wouldn’t know. But you’re free to go find out.”

Jongin hums, pulling the cigarette from his lips. “What are those rooms?” he asks, carefully, purposefully pointing to the third floor. “Do you know?”  _Tap, tap_  into the ashtray.

There are much less people up there, Jongin can tell. Barely any activity. The man squints a little, follows Jongin’s finger to where he points. He nods like he knows what Jongin is referring to, but he only shrugs again. “I dunno the specifics,” he replies. His hands fly around his station, fashioning together another drink before he slides it to a customer a few seats down from Jongin. “But I know it ain’t a place for guests. Only the boss goes up there, really. If you’re a regular, you probably seen ‘im—a real pretty-faced, young sorta fella.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah,” the bartender goes on. “I think the rooms are meetin’ places for like, my boss’ bosses, you know?”

Jongin takes another drag, blowing out slowly on the exhale. He phrases his question cautiously. “Boss’ bosses?”

The bartender finishes washing his hands, drying them on a paper towel. “Yeah, I dun’ really know,” more shrugging, “They’re all Chinese—probably just rich business guys who own the place and drop in every once in a while to check on it.”

Two taps into the ashtray again, and then Jongin just pushes the cigarette in, killing it. “I see.”

“Why’re you curious?” the man asks. He grabs Jongin’s empty glass, eyebrows raised, asking if he wants a second. Jongin waves it away, shakes his head. “Young man like yourself—you a business man too?”

Jongin pushes out his best amiable smile, and then a chuckle. “Something like that.”

“You do have a lot of questions.” It’s a new voice, coming from behind him. Jongin swivels in his seat, and there’s a man, smartly dressed, who takes the spot next to him. The bartender bows, retreating back to other patrons.

“Do I?” Jongin replies, careful.

“If you’re curious about those things,” the man says, “I think I’m the person you’re looking for.” He speaks softer, syllables shorter and choppy. His Korean is good. Fluid. But the lilt at the end of his words is something Jongin can’t miss.

“And you are?” Jongin prompts. Still calm.

The man’s polite smile stays in check, but his lips press together tighter. He’s got a very clean face, an air of importance to him that doesn’t just come from the neat dress shirt and blazer. A dimple appears on one cheek when his smile stretches just a fraction more. “Zhang Yixing,” he says, tongue curling comfortably around the Chinese. Jongin knows that name. It’s the name just under Kris Wu on the notoriety level. “I won’t ask for yours.”

At this, Jongin’s gut twists. They aren’t supposed to know.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Jongin says, tone steady although his hands feel shaky. He hides them under the counter. “I didn’t introduce myself.”

Yixing makes a noise that’s a scoff or a light chuckle. “El Dorado’s Kai. Hit man.”

Jongin’s hands clench fists in his lap. “Kris Wu’s right hand, Zhang Yixing.”

Yixing nods, unfazed, arms folding one on top of the other on the counter. “I prefer the term public relations, but ah, what’s the saying?” He has long, piano fingers, like Baekhyun. He drums them. “Tomato _, to-maw-to_.”

“What saying is that?”

“It’s English.”

“Hmm,” says Jongin.

This is a good thing, technically. Getting a word with Zhang Yixing is as good as getting one with Kris Wu himself. Of course, Jongin had been hoping he would be getting information more stealthily than this. Incognito. But beggars can’t be choosers.

Still, though. Talking has never been his strongest point. He’s not Junmyeon.

“You’re in our turf,” Yixing says, simply, cutting right to the chase. His fingers keep drumming, in even intervals that mirror the sound of a ticking time bomb. “That’s rather dangerous of you, you know. Especially after El Dorado’s stunt with that man, Xiumin. Or, what was his name? Kim… Minseok?”

Jongin’s hands, steadier, unclench in his lap. “It’s unfortunate about Xiumin,” he says, swallowing to clear his throat. “But I’d say EXO and El Dorado are even after you guys fucked us by stealing Japan.”

Yixing is quiet, smile still polite. He reminds Jongin of Junmyeon—the ability to stab with a look harder than a knife.

“Steal,” Yixing echoes, lips pursing. “We just made them a better deal.”

“The Japanese arms buyers have been El Dorado’s since  _forever_ ,” Jongin shoots back, pointedly. “You don’t just mess with our business deals, and not expect a reaction. And think to yourself: chasing Xiumin? You really think you want to start the gunfire? Because if that starts, it’ll be a war, Zhang-ssi.”

Yixing exhales, drumming fingers turning impatient. “Believe it or not, Kai, but we’re not trying to start a war with El Dorado. The situation with Japan had been in retaliation to your gang planting a spy into ours, but nothing more.” He clears his throat. “EXO has a more pressing issue to solve, actually.”

“And I don’t suppose you’ll tell me.”

“On the contrary,” Yixing says, “Kris would like to meet you.” Jongin bites his lip. A meeting with the leader isn’t exactly an example of staying undercover. But well, he supposes he failed the incognito part of Junmyeon’s orders already, anyways. Besides, it’s not like Jongin isn’t getting any information. “I’m assuming Xiumin passed on to El Dorado that EXO is looking for a hit man? And ours is injured.”

“About that,” Jongin says, “How suspicious that your boss himself is busting his ass to look for a hit man, right after this whole thing with Xiumin… I’m afraid that looks awfully bad on your part.”

“We are not busting our ass for a hit man to take out one of your no-name idiots,” Yixing retorts. It comes out a little sharp, but he recovers quickly. “We aren’t targeting Xiumin—or any of El Dorado’s men. That’s not why we need a hit man. This is a much bigger issue for EXO.”

“And you’re willing to tell me?” Jongin presses.

“I think…” Yixing starts, searching for his words. Jongin can tell he’s picking them prudently. “EXO and El Dorado… can help each other—face a common enemy. Both our gangs have problems that the other can solve.”

“You’re recruiting me,” Jongin realizes. It doesn’t come out as a question. He catches Yixing’s eyes, and they do look dead serious.

Yixing pushes off his seat, adjusts his blazer. He nods to the third floor rooms. “Let’s talk to Kris.”

 

 

-

 

 

They take the elevator. Jongin is confused as to why there even is one for a place with three stories.

The ride from the main level to the second is quiet, until the doors  _ding_ open before they reach the third.

“Oh Yixing. Good.” The man who steps in is thin and shorter than either of them, hands leaning back to cling onto the gold railings. He’s dressed as neatly as Yixing, except he’s wearing all black. His hair is a cool-toned honey colour, and he looks young. Very young. He could be younger than Jongin.

“Kris just sent me out to look for you,” the man says, rocking back and forth on his ankles. His eyes are a deep brown, round and twinkling. They land on Jongin. “Is this the Kai guy, then?”

Yixing nods once, arms folded as the elevator doors close and bring them up one more level. “Yes,” he says, shortly. “Kai, this is Lu Han. He works under me, and he runs this club.”

_A real pretty-faced, young sorta fella._  The ‘boss’, Jongin recalls. The bartender had called him young, but Jongin was not expecting  _this_  young.

Lu Han beams at him, and he really is pretty, strikingly so—almost as pretty as Baekhyun. But there’s something in his smile that makes Jongin think he’s not a total airhead. “Don’t stare, kid,” Lu Han says, lightly, with a wink. “I bet I’ve got at least five years on you.” Jongin barely hears an accent in his words—his Korean as perfect as Minseok’s Mandarin.

Jongin’s eyebrows raise. He looks Lu Han’s slim little body up and down. “Really? Five years?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

Lu Han rolls his eyes. There’s a glint in them, but it could just be the way the elevator lights reflect off the mirrors. The doors slide open. Yixing walks out first.

“Okay, not five years,” Lu Han replies, gesturing for Jongin to go ahead, then he falls into step behind him. “Six,” he says, his accompanying laugh like tiny, tinkling bells.

Jongin turns to gawk at him, and then back to Yixing, who he expects will tell him Lu Han is just pushing his buttons. But Yixing is quiet and Lu Han doesn’t really look like he’s joking.

They stop in front of the biggest door at the end of the hall. Yixing knocks three times. Two quick, the last one slow. The answer on the other end is gruff, and in Mandarin, but Jongin supposes it’s, “Come in.”

The room inside is not large, but it’s lavish. It looks a little like Machine’s XOXO room—the long chaise lounge a red satin, matching coloured drapes with gold stitching. Open bottles of brandy and whiskey litter the table in the center of the room.

Sitting, legs spread and drink in hand, is unmistakably Kris Wu. There are two other men with him, standing, leaning against the far wall. It seems Yixing has interrupted a rather heated conversation. One of the men, eyes heavy with makeup and sharp at the edges, cuts his gaze towards Yixing as Yixing ushers Kai in, Lu Han trailing. The man’s arm is slung in a cast, and when he shifts, Jongin catches the limp. Injured. This is Huang Zitao, then.

“Glad you could make it. Kai, right?” Kris finishes his drink, a little flick of the wrist. He has a thick voice; gruff, the way it sounded through the door. But his Korean is much smoother than Jongin would have imagined, better than Yixing’s.

Jongin shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants, one foot crossing over the other ankle as he slumps casually against the wall next to the door to cover his handgun that is underneath his shirt. It’s concealed expertly but he’d rather be careful anyways. He’s hoping for a civil discussion.

“So. A hit man,” Jongin begins. No beating around the bush. “It’s not like there are endless choices, but why me?”

Kris runs his eyes up and down Jongin’s figure like he’s sizing him up. He is a stark contrast to Junmyeon. Junmyeon is small; a neat, handsome face. By comparison, Kris is a gang leader that  _looks_  like a gang leader. Broad shoulders, and very harsh eyebrows that make him seem perpetually angry. Black leather clings to his long legs, outlines the muscle of his thighs.

“Maybe Yixing told you already,” Kris says, pushing back a strand of hair by his ear. He has more piercings than Chanyeol; four along one cartilage. “But I think El Dorado can help us.”

“Do tell,” Jongin replies. His tone is steady. He feels steady. Maybe he shouldn’t be because, really, he’s in a rather small room, severely outnumbered. But he thinks he can play his cards right if he tries hard enough.

“EXO needs a hit man,” Kris explains, plainly. “El Dorado needs money.”

If he notices Jongin’s jaw clenching, he doesn’t say anything. He nods to himself, though, as if he’s just confirmed El Dorado’s biggest problem. And he has.

“Right,” Kris continues. “This is simple. You’ll take someone out for us, we’ll pay you.”

Jongin taps his foot. Twice. Thrice. First things first. “How much?”

Kris throws his hands up, large palms opening. He could probably snap the neck of a grown man, with hands that big. “Enough to help your gang get back on its feet after the profit loss,” Kris replies, hands falling back into his lap. “And then of course, you’ll still get a separate payment yourself. For your troubles.”

Jongin kicks himself off the wall. He takes a step forward. “No bullshit.”

“No bullshit,” Kris echoes, massive hands clasping together. He’s watching Jongin carefully, Jongin can tell, studying him. Kris lets out a sigh, haggard. “I know that you’re expecting there to be a catch here, Kai, but there isn’t. This is a clean deal.”

“Clean deal,” Jongin murmurs, scoffing. “Is there such thing?” He moves a hand towards the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Huang Zitao and the other man watch Jongin’s movement, apprehensive, like they’re poised to pounce on him if he steps out of line. Jongin gives them a withering look, before he pours himself half a finger of brandy into a clean glass. Tension—always so heavy in this business.

Kris had always sounded like an intimidating man. Whenever Jongin hears his name whispered, in backs of alleys, within the walls of Machine, it’s always with an air of worry. Fear.

Jongin can see that same intimidation from Kris now too. But he also sees the wrinkles of stress along his forehead, the fatigue around his eyes.  _EXO has a more pressing issue to solve,_ Yixing had said.

Jongin swallows his brandy. “Who’s my target, then?” he asks. “Must be one important dude if you got yourself so… on edge.”

Among the underground, worry is a sign of weakness. Worry is not something Kris Wu is usually associated with. But Jongin can feel it in the room, palpable.

EXO has a problem, Jongin realizes. A big one. And there’s only one kind of problem that a gang like EXO would ever consider worrisome.

“You guys are about to be spotlighted, is that what’s happening?” No one moves, or even stiffens. Beside Kris, Yixing’s face is as impassive as ever. Jongin  _tsks_ , shaking his head. “Yikes.”

EXO owns luxurious hotels and expensive clubs, a wide range across Seoul. But the more you own, the more people you get involved. People that may be outside of the gang. It’s a risk you take when a gang chooses the high life, and EXO has always known that—been able to live with it—but now, it seems, they could only go so far until they’d get caught.

The thing about the underground world, is that it it’s meant to  _stay_  in the underground. It lives in the shadows. Close to the lime light, but never quite in it—always behind the scenes, pulling the strings.

Spotlight, however; now, that really is worrisome. They’re about to be exposed.

“Jung Jihoon,” says Kris, not denying Jongin’s revelation, “heard that name?”

It rings a bell. Some government official that’s been caught in a money scandal. Jongin’s heard about it on the news once or twice the past few days.

He nods. “What about him?”

“He works directly under the Foreign Affairs Minister,” Kris explains, and then he’s shaking his head, a downward curl to the edges of his small mouth, “And he was a major assistant with our international deals, helped us push all around Asia. We would pay him a slice of our profit for his help. It’s a deal we’ve had with him for a while, but now he’s threatening to rat us out. Spotlighting us, as you said.”

“Why all of a sudden?” Jongin swirls his drink around; circular, lazy movements of his wrist.

Kris chuckles. It’s a rough sound. “It’s been in the  _news_ ,” he says, rolling his eyes as if the news is some abomination. Which, Jongin figures, it kind of is for a gang leader. “The fucking news. The authorities looked into Jung’s income, bank accounts, whatever. And now he’s caught up in some money scandal he might go to jail for.”

“Ah,” Jongin nods. “And to lessen his punishment, he’s going to blame it all on EXO.”

“Yes, basically. That’s the TL;DR. He has to be taken out before he can do just that.” Kris points to the man beside Huang Zitao. “This is Chen. He’s Yixing’s partner. They’ll cover you on the actual job. Chen will contact you when we need you, so just be ready for the call.”

“Question, though,” Jongin interrupts. He adjusts his borrowed wristwatch, shoulders pushed back. “Why hasn’t Jung  _already_  spilt your name? What’s he waiting for?”

Junmyeon won’t be happy, Jongin knows. He’ll feel double-crossed that Jongin is making moves for El Dorado on his own. But at this point, Jongin is not about to let this deal go; this deal, once everything is said and done, solves both his  _and_  Junmyeon’s problems. And it’s, as Kris had put it, clean—strikes an alliance between their gangs, as well.

Kris lets out a short, dry laugh. He leans forward, pouring himself a finger of whiskey. It trickles out slowly, noisily—the sound, combined with Kris’ laughter, cuts right through the tension in the room. Or maybe it adds to it, Jongin can’t tell. But it makes him squirm a little. “You know the answer to that, Kai,” Kris says, plainly. He gulps half his glass in one shot, unflinching. “In our world, once you’re in, you don’t get an easy out.”

Jongin does know. It’s the most basic of a gang’s unsaid rules. It’s what binds Jongin to El Dorado, as well: You can never just  _leave_.

Jongin sets his empty glass down on the table. “One more condition,” he says. Kris Wu is indeed intimidating, but Jongin wills himself to hold the leader’s gaze. He is definitely pushing his luck with this one, but EXO really is in a bad position. Maybe even worse than El Dorado’s profit loss. Desperate times, desperate measures. Jongin thinks there won’t really be any room for Kris to refuse. “No more chasing Xiumin. This is a full ceasefire between El Dorado and EXO.”

Kris’ jaw clenches, even if he tries to hide it. Jongin raises his eyebrows, expectantly.

After a longer than appropriate moment, Yixing coughs. Kris rolls his eyes again, but nods once. “Fine. We have ourselves a deal.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

The car is stuffy. Jongin isn’t one for tuxes.

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” Beside him in the back seat, Sehun is being prickly. “No, for real. Why the fuck has Junmyeon-hyung not shot you dead yet?” Jongin picks out dirt from underneath his nails. They’re supposed to be looking prim and proper, after all. “Or rather, why hasn’t he ordered  _me_  to shoot you dead yet?”

Despite the stiffness of the moment, Chanyeol, who’s driving them, coughs to cover his laugh.

“I can’t believe you met Kris Wu  _and_  a group of his people, and walked out alive,” Sehun adds. He’s only four months younger than Jongin, but he whines like he’s twelve most of the time. One look at him, and no one would suspect he’s El Dorado’s second hit man.

Junmyeon sits in the front seat, beside Chanyeol. Junmyeon never yells, even at his angriest, and Jongin thinks that’s always been one of the most frightening things about him. “You made an official deal between our gangs without first consulting me, Kai,” Junmyeon says, voice soft. It’s unsettling. Sehun nods along, lips pursed smugly at Jongin.

“You don’t get it, Junmyeon,” Jongin says, sighing haggardly. “EXO is looking at possibly getting  _spotlighted_. They’re in as bad a place as we are. There are no tricks in this deal, trust me. And this solves both our problems—they get a hit man, and we get money.”

“An alliance with EXO,” Sehun mumbles unhelpfully, rolling his eyes. He crosses his legs, and it’s a bit of a struggle because all his limbs are too long for any concealed space. “What a joke.”

Jongin opts to ignore him. He’s glad he waited to tell Junmyeon the next day, in the car, on the way to an event. Because he really isn’t sure that his leader wouldn’t skin him alive, or actually shoot him dead, for, as Sehun had put it, ‘an act of total betrayal.’

“Kai,” Junmyeon cuts in, sharply. He meets Jongin’s eyes through the passenger mirror; the gaze so pointed, it knocks the wind out of Jongin, making him shift slightly in his place. Jongin tries to play if off like it’s just the heat. “You do  _not_  make deals without me--”

“Hyung, this is more than a deal. This is an alliance, they won’t bother us any—“

Junmyeon speaks so pointedly, his words could be laced with venom. “You do not make  _alliances_  without consulting me, Kim Jongin, you do not do  _anything_  unless I tell you to.”

The punch to Jongin’s gut from Junmyeon’s gaze pushes into his stomach heavier. “I did it to help you,” Jongin swallows, “hyung.”

There is a silence for a few minutes. Chanyeol keeps his eyes on the road. Sehun folds his hands in his lap, stares out the window, silent.

And then, “It’s true, the deal does help us. A lot,” Junmyeon says, finally. Sehun cocks an eyebrow at this, frowning. Junmyeon’s voice still does not rise. It is level, just above quiet, but the way it dips is unnerving. Icy. Jongin thinks Chanyeol actually squirms. “But stop fucking doing that, Kai. Don’t you dare act righteous, and sacrificial as if you’re working for El Dorado for any other reason than to help  _yourself_.”

Their eyes meet again in the mirror. “Kris Wu offered you a separate payment, right?”

Jongin looks away on a blink. In his leather dress shoes, he hadn’t realized that his toes had curled up, tense. Junmyeon has a way of doing that—making anyone’s knees shake with his words alone. The worst part is that he always knows how to pick them, knows exactly which words to say so that they make you feel stripped down, exposing your deepest worries.

And there he goes again—pinpointing Jongin’s lies. Jongin props his chin up into the palm of his hand, staring out the car window. “I trust EXO with this deal. It’s legitimate,” he says, as if it’s an actual reply to Junmyeon’s question.

Sehun shakes his head, unimpressed, fixing his cuff links. “I see,” Junmyeon concludes. Chanyeol slows down, as they turn onto a street, an extravagant hotel coming into view. It’s lit up like a Christmas tree, with long limousines pulling up in front of the entrance. It’s their destination for the night. They’re attending the sixtieth birthday of powerful media conglomerate, Lee Min Soo.

Their names aren’t on the guest list, of course, but there are already so many faces and cameras for Mr. Lee to entertain, that Junmyeon figures it won’t be a real issue.

“Just be careful when you do the job,” Junmyeon says as Chanyeol comes around the car to open their doors. Is that concern Junmyeon has for Jongin’s safety? Jongin almost rolls his eyes at the thought. Of course not. Junmyeon just doesn’t want Jongin to screw up, and have the deal explode into a mess that Junmyeon would then have to clean up after.

Jongin fidgets with the lapels on his suit, stepping out of the car. He throws a look at his brother, dryly. “Always am.”

 

 

-

 

 

Unlike Kris, all of the gang’s public relations, Junmyeon conducts himself. He has no assigned ‘right-hand man’. Junmyeon is a true businessman. He walks like one, talks like one. Knows how to work a person.

Mr. Lee is being fashionably late. It’s been half an hour and all his guests have already trickled in. The press have been left outside the ballroom, where the real party is to be held. That’s good for Junmyeon. His conversation with Mr. Lee should be a private one.

“So what exactly are we trying to get on him?” Jongin asks. They surrender their jackets over to coat check before they enter the ballroom. Jongin’s glad he and Sehun decided to keep their handguns under their shirts.

“Some of his compromising photographs have landed in El Dorado’s hands,” Junmyeon replies, his easy smile gluing itself in place as someone passes by with a tray of champagne. He plucks one for himself, motioning for the other two to do the same. When the server is gone, Junmyeon continues, “I’m not looking for anything specific from him, but I have dirt and there’s a lot of power in blackmail. Having a weakness from a strong man could get us something.” He takes a large sip, head tilting back. “You know how it is.”

Jongin exhales slowly, blowing hair out of his face. Baekhyun had run gel through it to push it back, but it still falls into his eyes every few moments if he looks down. “Whatever,” Jongin murmurs. He hands off his untouched champagne glass onto the tray of the next passing server. “As long as I’m getting paid for tonight, when the profit comes back.”

Junmyeon doesn’t say anything to this. Sehun rolls his eyes. Mr. Lee makes his appearance at the front of the ballroom, hobbling up small steps onto a podium. People start applauding.

The man gives his welcoming speech, a useless spiel about love and gratitude that Jongin has heard one too many times from all these sort of events. He thanks his family and co-workers, and “also, to the people who have made tonight possible with their generous help and donations.”

He sweeps one of his arms out. The small spotlight on him follows the movement. It lands on a few people standing a little off-center on the podium. The man closest to Mr. Lee is dressed in a white suit, black lapels for an accent. He bows to Lee and then once at the guests, hands tucked behind his back, an action that narrows out his shoulders. He’s already rather short; much shorter, and much younger-looking than the people beside him.

“Enjoy yourselves tonight, my friends,” Lee finishes, bowing. More applause, before the party breaks off.

Dinner is served, followed shortly by a desert. Soon after, the music has started, the ballroom cleared. And then the party really begins—everyone buzzing and chattier after several more drinks in them. It’s Junmyeon’s time to make an appearance.

The three of them shove in their earpieces, rising from their table. Sehun sticks to Junmyeon’s side as they part ways. Junmyeon is a capable guy, but they never take chances.

Jongin is the spare set of eyes. Surveillance. He usually is, because he’s always been better at it than Sehun. Jongin bounces less on his feet, knows what it means to blend in.

He skirts the perimeter, walk casual, hands in the pockets of his dress pants. He stops in front of a painting hanging on the wall. It’s a large one; showcasing wide, vague brushstrokes. It depicts an island, it seems, with the way the sea stretches around slabs of green land.

“It’s Jeju.”

Jongin turns on his heel. White suit with the black lapels. The man next to Lee on the podium.

“I’ve never been,” says Jongin, carefully. No one has really spoken to Jongin, Sehun or even Junmyeon much for the entire night. Of course not. They don’t know anyone here. So he doesn’t know why he’s being spoken to now.

“I lived there for a while,” the man replies. He has a glass of champagne in one of his hands. Up close, he still looks short. His shoulders really are narrow, like they just barely fill out his suit. When he steps forward, standing next to Jongin, his head comes up just to Jongin’s chin.

“I don’t settle down much but,” the man waves around his hand, motioning to the painting, “it was such a beautiful place, I couldn’t help myself. This artwork is nice but nothing compares to the real thing.”

“I suppose not.” Jongin doesn’t know. He’s never really left Seoul.

The man peeks at him, through the corner of his eyes. He has big eyes. As he blinks, quickly, with long eyelashes fluttering, he reminds Jongin of an owl. In more ways than one. He speaks with an unsettling wisdom. Jongin wouldn’t expect it from a man that size. “Do Kyungsoo,” the man offers his hand. Jongin shakes it. He has small hands. “I’m here tonight more out of obligation than anything.”

Jongin clears his throat, shrugging. “With you on that one,” he says. Then, belatedly, “Kim Jongin.”

Kyungsoo smiles, tips of his full lips curling just slightly. “I helped fund the party tonight. It would be rude not to show up.”

Jongin returns the smile, somehow a genuine reaction, not a conscious effort. “Of course.”

The earpiece crackles to life in Jongin’s ear. Sehun’s voice comes in, “Got him. Stay in the ballroom.” Jongin’s eyes move discreetly from Kyungsoo, to one of the doors, where Jongin sees Junmyeon and Sehun, on either side of Mr. Lee. Sehun has a hand placed on the small of Lee’s back, the other hand out of sight, but Jongin figures it’s probably pressing a handgun into Lee’s side.

They hustle the man out of the ballroom, but it all looks rather civil to an onlooker. Even to Jongin. He looks back at Kyungsoo, who’s watching him with the most unreadable expression.

“Are you a businessman?” Kyungsoo asks, small hands holding his champagne glass by the tips. Jongin thinks about it. “Not quite,” he decides. A pause. “I sort of came as a plus one with a, ah… friend. He’s the real businessman.”

Kyungsoo hums, nodding. “The blond fellow, with the tall guy, right?”

He’s observant. “That’s the one,” Jongin confirms. Sehun is being quiet in the earpiece. It should be a good sign; means their conversation is going smoothly.

“Kim… Junmyeon, is his name?” Kyungsoo says again. The champagne glass comes to his mouth, a tentative sip. He keeps Jongin’s eye contact as his lips stretch around the glass. Jongin clenches his jaw. Something else clenches with it, somewhere in Jongin’s gut. Or lower, he can’t tell.

Jongin nods. The lump in his throat feels a little heavier. “Yes.”

The glass retreats from Kyungsoo’s mouth, his tongue peeking out for just a moment to lick along the seam of his lips. Then, a small smile again. “I see.”

Still nothing from Sehun or Junmyeon. Jongin thinks he should tell Junmyeon that somehow, somebody at the party knows his name. It’s not exactly alarming—Junmyeon’s done business with a few higher-up people before—but it’s definitely unexpected.

Kyungsoo’s head is cocked to the side. The dim lights in the ballroom catch his hair, and Jongin notices the slightest brown shade in it. “So, what do you do, Kim Jongin?” Kyungsoo asks. He finishes the rest of his champagne, placing it on a passing tray. “You don’t look like you have an office job.” His smile stretches. Jongin is distracted by his mouth.

“Let me guess. Modelling?”

Jongin smiles, wanly. An eyebrow lifts. “Model? What gave you that idea?”

Kyungsoo purses his lips, shifts his weight from one foot to another. His voice dips, lower, quieter, and Jongin doesn’t know if it’s because the music has stopped for a moment, or if it’s on purpose.

“You’ve got ‘tall, dark and handsome’ pinned down.” The way Kyungsoo says it gives Jongin that clenching feeling, low—very low—in his gut again. Jongin presses his lips together, firmly, coughing. The music returns. Kyungsoo blinks at him, wide eyes positively innocent.

Sehun is in Jongin’s ear again. But this time, his words are rushed, frantic. “Kai—get out, get out of there right now!” Jongin’s eyes dart around the ballroom. It’s still as calm as ever, guests laughing it away at their tables, moving conservatively to the beat of the music. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It’s Junmyeon that speaks next, tersely. “Pull out, Kai, we’re leaving.”

Jongin turns to Kyungsoo, opening his mouth for an excuse. It’s sitting on the edge of his lips, but barely makes its way out when the ballroom lights suddenly disappear, everything enveloping in black. Jongin’s words get swallowed by the darkness and the crescendo of panic as people realize they can’t see anything.

It’s total blackness. Jongin can’t even make out the outline of his own hands. “Someone’s target is at the party,” Sehun’s voice says, breathy, like he’s jogging. “We need to go before a dead body is found, and security starts looking for any  _uninvited_  guests.”

Jongin isn’t sure if Kyungsoo is still next to him. He can’t tell, but the general buzz of the guests has reached a complete frenzy that Jongin can’t hear much of anything. “There’s a hit man here?” Jongin asks. “Why?”

“Yeah, I have no idea but we’re not waiting around to find out,” Sehun bites back. A few people bump into Jongin’s shoulder. Jongin thinks he feels someone trip over his feet. It’s commotion all around him.

“Does this have anything to do with us?” Jongin presses. He can’t see his wristwatch, but he guesses the lights have been gone for almost two minutes now.

“No, no,” Sehun says, “This is some other gang’s business. But it’s… we’ll explain later.”

Jongin has been watching the guests for the entire night, and no one seemed even mildly out of place. But then, he supposes, someone like Junmyeon hadn’t looked out of place either.

Roughly five minutes pass in an obscure collection of chaos. The lights don’t flicker back on, one by one like they would if it was a power outage. Rather, they return all at once, in one blinding moment. Guests breathe a collective sigh of relief. Jongin sees Junmyeon and Sehun walking in through one of the ballroom doors.

Then, a scream. Jongin hears Sehun curse through the earpiece. At the front of the ballroom, a woman falls to her knees, holding a man’s crumpled body. There’s a blossoming of red across the man’s dress shirt. A single bullet to the chest. People gather around her, as the men look on in shock and the women gasp, looking away.

Kyungsoo is still standing beside Jongin, watching the scene impassively. He sighs, a quick inhale and exhale through his nose. “Oh my goodness,” he murmurs, lowly. “How morbid.”

 

 

-

 

 

No one is willing to wait. They arrive at Machine just past two AM. Chanyeol does some digging and comes up with information within the hour.

“So, it’s generally good news,” Chanyeol offers, walking to the circle booth with drinks. Only Sehun reaches over to grab a glass. “The target was just some businessman who was pushing out to Singapore. Not a concern to us… exactly.”

Jongin catches the hesitation, but doesn’t follow through on it. He’s too tired for this. He tugs at his bowtie, pulling it off. Beside him, Junmyeon lets out a visible sigh of relief. “Do you know who ordered him dead?” Jongin asks. He undoes the top two buttons of his dress shirt.

“It’s… kind of?” Chanyeol replies. He slides in next to Sehun. “It’s that small-time gang based more towards the West of the city. Lucifers, or something.” He waves his hand about, vaguely. “I don’t know. That’s not the important part it’s just…”

He shares a look with Junmyeon across the table, who then glances at Sehun. Jongin is missing something.

“Is someone going to fill me in? Or do I assume this isn’t my issue and I can go home for the night,” Jongin mumbles, on a tired sigh. With the heels of his palms, he rubs the sleep from his eyes.

Junmyeon leans forward, one hand over the other, on the table. “As soon as we had Lee Min Soo out of the ballroom, he went hysterical, asking if we were ‘the men’,” he explains. Jongin’s eyebrows furrow. “We asked him what he meant by that, and he said that he didn’t know who we were, but that we’re obviously involved in gang work and all he knows is that a gang would be targeting one of his guests tonight.”

“Wait,” Jongin interrupts. He shrugs off his blazer, pushing the sleeves of his dress shirt up to his elbows. “He knew about the target?”

“He knew someone would be killed, yes,” Junmyeon continues. He flicks his eyes towards Sehun again. Sehun purses his lips, and takes over. “He didn’t know much else besides that,” Sehun fills in, “But he said that he wouldn’t interfere in the gang’s kill, so long as nothing happened to himself.”

Chanyeol makes a face at that, bending over the table to grab an untouched drink. The black piercings in his ears gleam in the moving strobe lights.

“Okay,” Jongin says, slowly. It’s pushing three-thirty now. He hasn’t stayed up this late for El Dorado business in a long time. The other three, however, Jongin notes grudgingly, look wide awake. He tries to blink away his fatigue. “I still don’t see how this whole thing is relevant to us.”

Sehun mirrors Jongin a moment later, taking his blazer off. On the table, Junmyeon twines his fingers together. “Technically, it’s not,” Sehun says, pursing his lips. “But when we were talking to Lee, we told him we’re a different gang than the one who ordered the kill, and then we asked him if he could give us any information. He told us that he only had one name—the hit man’s.”

Sehun doesn’t follow up. And it takes Jongin several seconds until he gets it. When he does, he whirls on Junmyeon. “He  _is_  hanging around the city again!”

Junmyeon glances at Jongin, witheringly. “Yes, but he  _still_  has nothing to do with us,” Junmyeon retorts. “We’re just letting you know as an FYI thing.”

Jongin frowns, thinking about the party guests again. There’s a twist and a lurch in his stomach as he realizes that that meant D.O. himself had been there, and Jongin had missed it completely. D.O. could have been anyone, in that massive sea of people—doing an even better job of blending in than Jongin.

“So this D.O. guy is in the neighbourhood,” Junmyeon goes on, “It’s not a big deal, we just need to be careful. Just because he hasn’t bothered us before, doesn’t mean he won’t try and start now.”

“And I hate to bring this up,” Chanyeol interjects, “But if he’s in the area… I mean—“ He pauses, then looks at Jongin, almost apologetic. “Not that Kai isn’t great at what he does, but I just mean… if D.O. is around, then EXO probably knows and I’m just wondering… if they know that D.O. is around, who’s to say they didn’t hire D.O. for the job… that they asked Kai to do?”

Well, fuck.

Sehun snaps his fingers appraisingly at Chanyeol. “Bingo.”

Jongin’s head buzzes. It can’t be alcohol because he hadn’t had so much as a sip of champagne the entire night. Junmyeon is looking at him with a cocked eyebrow. Jongin feels cornered.

A clean deal with no bullshit, my ass.

Jongin whips out his phone, dialing Lu Han, the only number from EXO he had been given.

“Where the hell are  _you_  going?” Sehun calls out as Jongin steps around the booth, and out the door, weaving his way through the throngs of sweaty bodies. Out on the streets, he hails down a cab and jumps in, hastily.

Leaning forward in his seat, he tells the driver, “The Black Pearl.”

 

 

-

 

 

Lu Han is right next to the bouncer when Jongin arrives, foot tapping evenly as Jongin had ducked under the velvet rope, skipping the line. Lu Han ushers him in soundlessly through the club, up onto the third floor, and into a room. It’s smaller than the one before, and empty.

“Drink?” asks Lu Han, lightly.

Jongin ignores the foreplay. “Where’s your leader?”

“Not in tonight,” Lu Han replies, motioning with a hand towards the chaise lounge. Jongin doesn’t budge. Lu Han sighs, sitting himself down, legs crossing.

“You sounded rather alarmed over the phone,” says Lu Han. “What was so pressing that you needed to meet in person?”

“I want all the information on this Jung Jihoon assignment. Every little thing,” Jongin says, insistently. “Everything that EXO knows,  _I_ want to know.”

Lu Han stares at him with a mild expression. “You’re asking the wrong person. I just run the club.”

Whether or not he’s bluffing, Jongin is too impatient to try and discern. He makes a show of leaning against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “Then I’ll wait until you find me the  _right_  person.”

There are two dry knocks on the door. Lu Han calls out in Mandarin. The door opens, and Huang Zitao steps in, his limp showing as Chen trails behind him.

“Perfect,” says Jongin. “We were just discussing that deal.” He glances at Zitao, who still has his arm slung in a cast. Jongin fixes him with a cold stare. “Hit man to hit man, Huang-ssi—tell me about this Jung Jihoon assignment your leader gave to me.”

Zitao is tall, now that Jongin is really looking. He has an edge to his gaze, like he’s trying to cut Jongin with just his eyes. “Are you questioning EXO? You think we’re trying to pull something behind your back?” Zitao retorts, words getting swallowed a little by a heavy accent.

Jongin takes a step off the wall, towards Zitao. He can  _feel_  the way Zitao tenses. He reminds Jongin of a cat before it pounces on its prey. “I was promised ‘no bullshit’. A ‘clean’ deal,” Jongin speaks slowly, voice dipping. “So cut the shit, and tell me right now if that’s not what you’re giving me.”

From his spot on the chaise lounge, Lu Han whistles faintly, shaking his head, looking rather amused. He seems too relaxed considering the stiffness of the room, and Jongin wonders if Lu Han really does know nothing about the gang’s deals or if that’s just the kind of person Lu Han is—never quite bothering to take anything seriously.

He stands and pours himself more brandy. “A drink anyone?” he says into the tension.

Chen clears his throat. “You seem very worked up Kai-ssi,” he says, and hearing him for the first time, Jongin can tell that his Korean is too clear for him to be Chinese. Jongin narrows his eyes. “What exactly are you thinking to get you so, hmm, stressed?”

The way he talks, Jongin thinks he could be like Junmyeon or maybe Yixing—good with words, picks them carefully. But with a longer look, Jongin takes that thought back. The tips of Chen’s lips curl in the faintest of smiles, except there isn’t a trace of warmth or anything inviting about it at all.

“I hear there’s a man named D.O. in the area. That’s quite a name,” Jongin replies, placidly. Chen’s smile falters the way Junmyeon’s wouldn’t. “And it got me thinking—why would EXO hire me, an El Dorado man, if the notorious freelance hit man, D.O., is around and available?”

Zitao clenches his jaw, visibly. Jongin leans back into the wall again. “And then I remembered,” Jongin continues, words slow and pointed, “that EXO had been planning to meet with a hit man, right? And if El Dorado wasn’t going through a profit loss, you never would have turned to us for help.” He moves his hands, tucking them behind his back. He watches Zitao’s and Chen’s eyes follow the movement. Chen does the same a moment later, hands disappearing from view. Jongin’s been in the business long enough to know that Chen has probably curled a hand around to grip his handgun. Jongin doesn’t blame him. He knows it’s just him reading the tension, a precaution. Jongin would do the same.

But Jongin isn’t looking for an altercation today. He moves his hands from behind his back, folding his arms again. Chen’s shoulders relax. “So,” Jongin says, “I can put two and two together, but you can correct me if I’m wrong—who were you planning to hire before me for this job?”

The question is a formality, and they all seem to know it. Chen looks away, exhaling. Zitao’s shoulders slumping like they’ve just been caught. Chen wets his lips. “Kris had heard about D.O., and wanted to hire him, you’re right.”

“So you guys fucking crossed me,” Jongin says, quickly.

“No,” Chen cuts in, “Kris had met with D.O.’s… right hand, I guess. I doubt the man was actually D.O. himself. But anyways, he came into the club, but their meeting was short and private.”

Jongin blows the hair out of his eyes, frustrated. “This does not answer my question—you hired us both for this one job. How do I know that when I show up to kill Jung, that I won’t have a run-in and get into some mess with this D.O. guy? This isn’t some bullshit where the reward money is going to be split, okay? Only  _one_  of us is going to actually pull the trigger, and I don’t want to have to fucking  _fight_  over it with D.O. like we’re children.”

“Kris did want D.O. first, and he offered the job to him. I’m pretty sure Kris gave him the date, time, place and everything but then… after the meeting, Kris said D.O.’s rep hadn’t given Kris a solid yes or no,” Chen explains. “And then, Kris heard about El Dorado’s problem and figured we’d hire you instead. More reliable.”

Jongin shakes his head, tiredly, bringing two fingers up to massage the oncoming headache at his temples. “But we did  _not_  do anything purposely to double cross you, or try to fuck you over,” Chen says, adamantly.

Jongin wants to call the deal off. That’s what he knows he  _should_ do. But then, he thinks about his sister losing her job and the shoebox apartment rent that still has not been paid. And then, for some reason, he thinks about El Dorado.

But most of all, Jongin realizes, as he glances around the lavish, little room, he is thinking about what D.O. looks like. The actual D.O., what kind of person he really is; the infamous man himself, who can single-handedly shake Seoul’s underground, organized crime ring.

And then there is the stubborn, proud part of Jongin that would never admit it—but maybe, he thinks, with D.O., Jongin feels a burning sense of competition.

 

-

 

 

Junmyeon continually surprises Jongin with the kinds of events he can somehow weasel his way into. When Jongin was seventeen, Junmyeon had brought him along to the honorary party for the city’s police chief. It had been for practice. He had shown Jongin a map of the venue, and Jongin had to pinpoint the best location to set up if he was on a job. Junmyeon had told him to see how fast he could assemble and dissemble his sniper rifle, and how well he could line up a target.

Tonight, they are at the wedding of the Foreign Affairs Minister. There is actual security, officers posted around the building, at every entrance and exit. But Junmyeon always finds a way.

The wedding was originally supposed to be an outdoor affair, but apparently, that had changed after the media had reported the death at Lee Min Soo’s large birthday party. Jongin, however, would consider the change laughable, and barely a preventive measure. Whether it’s indoors or outdoors, it doesn’t matter. A hit man is a shadow, and wherever there is light, there would always be shadows.

According to one of Chanyeol’s sources, D.O. has another job tonight, and Jongin doesn’t think it would hurt to try and get a visual of him. He’s prepared this time.

“I could be spending a Sunday night doing so many better things than sitting around while Kai here tries to find his wet dream,” Sehun says irritably through the earpieces. Jongin would slap him if he wasn’t on the other side of the party.

“Fuck you,” he bites out, under his breath. He’s alone at the bar, though, so he can’t keep answering Sehun’s quips.

“Quiet now, Sehun,” Jongin hears Junmyeon say. “It’s a good thing for Kai to know what the guy looks like.”

Sehun scoffs, and if Jongin could see his face, he’s probably rolling his eyes, face pulling together in that pinched expression that makes him look like he swallowed something sour.

“Re-fill?” asks the bartender. Jongin shakes his head, politely.

“He’ll have another.” The stool beside Jongin shifts. Jongin looks over, alarmed, into Do Kyungsoo’s pleasant smile. He winks. “I’m buying.”

The bartender slides them two new glasses. Kyungsoo raises his, teasing. Jongin laughs, lightly. Their cups clink. “Did you fund this wedding too, or something?” Jongin jokes. Kyungsoo tips his head back as he laughs, the sound smooth, velvety. Jongin’s palms feel sweaty. He wipes them on his pants. He’s wearing the same tux he wore to the other event, and wonders fleetingly if Kyungsoo can tell.

Kyungsoo is wearing a different suit himself. It’s black this time, and it suits him a lot better, Jongin thinks. The white one hadn’t quite outlined his body the same way this one does. He’s still small-looking and narrow-shouldered, but his dress pants cling to his thighs nicely. Jongin looks away.

“I did, actually, but I’m also a friend of the groom,” Kyungsoo says. He has a way of pressing his lips together after he smiles. “Are you someone’s plus one again?” he shoots back.

Jongin considers this. If Kyungsoo is as observant as Jongin thinks he is, then Kyungsoo has probably already seen Junmyeon and Sehun again. “I—yeah, sort of,” Jongin replies. He vaguely deliberates following up with a lie like,  _Junmyeon is a friend of the bride’s_ , but he figures that would seem suspicious and would also make no sense.

It’s hard to not look at Kyungsoo. He smiles at Jongin like he’s sharing a secret. Jongin pulls away for just a moment to scan the guests again. He’s not sure what to look for. D.O. could be old, or young. Maybe someone his own age, he doesn’t know.

“You seem a little distracted,” Kyungsoo says, casually. He lifts his eyebrows a little. Jongin makes sure to chuckle, to brush it off. “Sorry about that. I’m all right.”

Kyungsoo nudges his drink towards him. “Have a drink, then.”

Jongin clears his throat. “Sure.” He tilts his head back as he brings the glass to his mouth. Really, he shouldn’t drink on business. If Junmyeon is watching him, he’ll probably stare at him disapprovingly.

But the way Kyungsoo’s eyes disappear into crinkles as he smiles has Jongin forgetting about that for a moment. He sees Kyungsoo’s eyes drop from his face, lower, and Jongin thinks Kyungsoo could be watching his throat, the skin of his neck as he swallows the drink.

Another clench in the stomach. Jongin shifts in his seat.

“It’ll be a long night, won’t it?” Kyungsoo says, eyes glinting. “One more round won’t hurt?”

It’ll take much more for Jongin to get tipsy, anyways. He’ll be fine. He shrugs a reply.

“So,” Jongin swears Kyungsoo is fluttering his eyelashes as he brings the fresh glass to his mouth. He sips. “Was I right about the model thing?” Kyungsoo does that thing again, licking along the seam of his lips after he drinks. Jongin’s neck feels warm.

“Should I be flattered?” Jongin jibes, drumming his fingers on the counter. He shakes his head, “No, I—“  _Kill people for money, occasionally._ “I’m just a university student.”

The music switches. Jongin hadn’t been paying much attention to it before. The playlist had been simple and generic, but now the dance floor in the center clears and the DJ starts playing some slow R&B track. Kyungsoo cocks his head to the side. Another smile. Jongin swallows.

“You’re younger than me, then,” Kyungsoo comments.

Jongin lifts an eyebrow. It would have been hard to tell with how tiny Kyungsoo is. “Am I?”

Kyungsoo purses his lips, considering. He really shouldn’t do that. Jongin can not focus when he does that. “Just by a bit,” Kyungsoo replies.

By the fifth round of drinks, Jongin has to grip the counter. He should stop now. For real, this time. Junmyeon will be mad if he’s not totally sober.

The bartender slides him another glass. As Jongin is about to push it away, he slips up, the drink instead getting lurched forward, off the side of the counter. The liquid spills onto the bottom of Kyungsoo’s dress shirt and darkens the pants between his legs. The glass tumbles to the floor, shattering.

“ _Shit_ , I’m—“ Jongin’s head feels a little blurred still, but he sobers almost immediately. “Fuck, I fucked up, I’m sorry.”

Kyungsoo stares at his spoiled suit that must be a thousand-something won more than Jongin could ever afford at the moment. But then, Kyungsoo just laughs. He waves a hand at the bartender. “You can put the glass on the bill. I’ll be right back,” he tells him. He lays out his wallet on the counter to make his point, and then kicks off the barstool. He is so, so small, Jongin kind of wants to reach out and steady him. Sitting down, his feet don’t even graze the floor.

“Fuck, your suit though…” Jongin glances at the mess he’s made, cringing. “I…”

Kyungsoo jerks his head towards the bathrooms. “Nothing a little water can’t wash off,” he shrugs, amiably. He doesn’t look even remotely upset.

At the other end of the party, Junmyeon is chatting up some young lady, Sehun just a little ways off at his side. Neither of them are looking at Jongin.

Jongin heaves himself off his stool, as well. “I’ll go with you, at least,” he says.

Kyungsoo chuckles. Smooth. Velvet. “If you want.”

There are quite a few people in the bathroom, but Kyungsoo doesn’t seem shy in the slightest as he pulls his blazer off and untucks the stained dress shirt.

“You don’t have to look like that,” Kyungsoo says, terribly amused. “It’s just clothes.”

“Oh, yeah—I. Sorry,” Jongin falters. Kyungsoo starts to unbutton his shirt. Jongin thinks his throat is going to close.

A man bumps Jongin’s shoulder as he tries to reach around him to use the sink. Fumbling, Jongin steps forward to make room. He stumbles, squeezing right up to Kyungsoo, and completely destroying any last remnants of personal space.

The other guests file out a few minutes later. Jongin steps away to give Kyungsoo room again, and then he thinks he sees Kyungsoo smile at the movement. The bathroom is silent as Kyungsoo bends over the sink, rinsing out whatever he can. He’s all the way on his tiptoes as he attempts to wash the stain off from further up the shirt. He curses, before he gives up, settling back on his feet. Jongin is still trying to look anywhere but at him.

Kyungsoo glances at his soiled pants. “Well, these are a lost cause,” he mumbles. Jongin’s eyes trail down, and then he’s staring again—at the way Kyungsoo’s thighs fill the outline of the black slacks. Jongin looks away a moment too late because Kyungsoo catches his gaze, wide eyes blinking up at him.

Jongin’s blood freezes. He waits for Kyungsoo to flush, to frown, affronted, but he does none of those things. Jongin peels his eyes down to the skin of Kyungsoo’s stomach, and then up his chest—smooth and pale. The lower part of his neck is freckled with tiny moles. Jongin’s whole body feels numb to the finger tips.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. This time, it’s a valid thought because Jongin has had too much and he knows it. But he also smells the cologne from Kyungsoo’s unbuttoned shirt, and feels warm breath ghosting across his face. They are standing very close. At some point, Kyungsoo must have stepped forward because Jongin remembers there being much more distance between them.

“Kim Jongin.” His name sounds different in Kyungsoo’s voice. It sounds deeper, huskier, as it bounces off the walls of the large, empty bathroom. Kyungsoo tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, eyes trained very obviously on Jongin’s mouth, and that’s the final straw for Jongin.  _Clench_ ,  _clench_  in his gut.

He lurches forward, catching Kyungsoo’s lips, and Kyungsoo makes some noise at the back of his throat but it gets lost or swallowed down, Jongin can’t figure out which one. Their breathing is heavy and loud in the silence, lips wet. Insistent. Kyungsoo pushes Jongin back, into the door.

Searching for the lock behind him, Jongin turns it quickly. He feels Kyungsoo smile against his mouth, and Jongin responds greedily, messily, with more nips and tugs at the other’s lips. He tucks his hands behind Kyungsoo’s back. With a quick heave, he shifts, spins, pinning Kyungsoo against a wall.

Kyungsoo groans, his legs snaking around Jongin’s waist to keep himself in place. Jongin jolts and his pants feel tight, suddenly restrictive. He lets out a vague, frustrated noise, rolling his hips. Kyungsoo’s breathing falters, hitching.

“Shit, I don’t—“ Jongin tries to say between the kisses.

Kyungsoo shakes his head, their mouths not breaking apart. “Shut up, just  _shut up_. Keep—“ he shudders, “Keep  _going_.”

So Jongin does. He rolls his hips again, and again. Kyungsoo’s face contorts, breaths increasing in pitch and tempo, and Jongin thinks he's never heard more obscenely satisfying sounds. Somehow, Kyungsoo knows how to read Jongin. The friction of their movements sends Jongin into some sort of implacable haze. As he feels a heated tightness coiling in his stomach, he clings and claws at Kyungsoo’s thighs the way he’s probably wanted to all night. Kyungsoo puts a hand between their pants, palming at Jongin insistently.

“ _Shit_ ,” Jongin groans. His body shakes with the heat and pleasure, Kyungsoo following him just a second later, the rest of his breathy noises getting lost in an incoherent storm across Jongin’s lips.

They wait for their breathing to slow. Jongin steps back from the wall to free Kyungsoo, and Jongin swears he sees Kyungsoo still smiling. Serene. Amused. Completely inappropriate for the situation, although Jongin isn’t sure what that word means right now.

Kyungsoo buttons his shirt up, puts his blazer back on. He glances at Jongin, gaze moving down, and then he bursts, laughing. Jongin follows Kyungsoo’s eyes down to his own pants. “Oh my God.”

Kyungsoo reaches around Jongin, flipping the lock on the door. He runs his hands through Jongin’s hair, adjusts the lapels of his suit. “Don’t worry,” Kyungsoo whispers, “You still look hot.” He leans forward like he’s about to claim Jongin’s mouth again. But instead, as their faces are millimeters apart, he wets his lips, and steps back.

“I’ll leave first,” he says, pulling open the door. “Since maybe we shouldn’t be seen at the same with, ah…  _soiled_ pants.”

He leaves with a wink, and the sound of that smooth laugh plays on repeat in Jongin’s blurred thoughts.

 

 

-

 

 

“Where the fuck did  _you_  disappear to?” Sehun looks Jongin up and down, frowning. Jongin swallows, wiping the sweat from his neck. He had left the bathroom a good ten minutes after Kyungsoo, not wanting to take any chances. Thankfully in that time, his pants had dried up.

But the heated sensations all over his body still linger, like he’s on fire where Kyungsoo had touched him.

“I—bathroom,” Jongin says, voice thick. He coughs. Only Junmyeon notices, of course. His eyes flick up from his cell phone, fixed stare on Jongin for several seconds too long. But then, he just looks away again.

“Did you find him?” Junmyeon asks. He pockets his phone, raises his eyebrows. “I don’t want to stay very long. The bride and groom are making their rounds of the guests.”

Jongin watches as the Minister and his new wife float from table to table, greeting friends and family, shaking hands and laughing. Not good.

“We should leave now,” Sehun stands from his seat. Junmyeon rises with him, buttoning his suit.

“Wait it’s… too soon,” Jongin says, weakly. He scans the place again. They can’t leave without getting a visual on D.O., otherwise the whole night would have been a waste. His eyes cling desperately to every guest, trying to watch the way they walk and talk or if anyone keeps filtering in and out of the party suspiciously.

“We’ve been here over two hours, Kai,” says Junmyeon. They start making their way to an exit. “Unless you spent the entire time doing fuck-all, then you should have pinned him down by now.”

Jongin had been too busy pinning someone else down in the bathroom—

And he doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that. He kind of wants to bang his head against a wall now. For some reason, he can’t think of an appropriate reply—or rather, excuse—fast enough.

What he does end up thinking about is the way Kyungsoo’s thighs fit in his hands, and Kyungsoo’s wide, wide eyes, with their blown pupils, staring at Jongin, looking so provocative in the bathroom lights. Jongin has to cough again.

“Well, there’s your answer,” Sehun deadpans. “He did fuck-all, then.”

Jongin throws Sehun a baleful look. Reaching out an arm, he pinches Sehun forcefully in the leg. Sehun yelps.

“I need an ambulance!”

The flux and flow of the party shifts. Jongin looks over. At the bar, the bartender has a phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. With his hands, he’s nudging gingerly at a man who sits slumped over the counter. At the tip of his fingers, the man holds a half-empty drink.

Jongin shares a look with Junmyeon, whose lips are pulled down just the slightest. Jongin jogs over. “Did you see what happened to him?” he asks the bartender.

“No! Fuck, I have no idea!” The bartender shakes his head, hysterically. Jongin frowns, eyebrows furrowed. Tentatively, he reaches for the man’s hand, then presses two fingers into the inner wrist.

No pulse.

“Heart attack?” Junmyeon asks. How unnecessary. It’s not a heart attack and they both know it. Jongin rolls his eyes at him, witheringly.

“It could be, I don’t know!” the bartender exclaims. “One minute he’s fine, the next minute he’s sweating buckets, and then suddenly he’s clutching at his chest, saying his body is going numb.”

Ah, Jongin realizes. D.O. chose a stealth approach tonight. What a fucker. Jongin grits his teeth.

He pulls the half-empty glass from the victim’s fingertips. “What did you serve him, sir?”

“It’s just straight whiskey,” the bartender replies.

“Hmm,” says Jongin. He holds the glass up just in front of his eye. The tiniest specks of white litter the top layer of the drink, just barely. Jongin  _tsks_. “It’s spiked.”

“You didn’t spike this, did you, sir?” Sehun questions, bright and pleasant, sarcasm heavy. Jongin rolls his eyes.

“What the f—of course not!” The bartender looks like he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Junmyeon offers him a thin smile as some kind of reassurance. “When the ambulance comes, make sure they run tests on the whiskey, then,” he tells him.

Jongin places the glass back down on the counter. And then, something catches his eye, tucked right under the man’s arm. Jongin picks it up. It’s the wedding invitation for tonight, the one that the guests presumably received in the mail.

_You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of—_

Wait. Something’s not right.

Jongin cocks his head. There’s no way that’s a part of the invitation.

 _You are cordially invite d to attend_…

Like a word search puzzle, two letters are circled obnoxiously in red.

It’s… like a fucking signature, Jongin realizes—nothing creative, nothing subtle. His jaw drops, and suddenly, he feels blatantly insulted. Over his shoulder, Sehun laughs, sounding incredulous, “This little shit.” He claps Jongin on the shoulder.

A ‘ _d_ ’. And an ‘ _o_.’

Jongin rips the invitation in half.

 

 

-

 

 

There is no wind. Through the scope of his sniper rifle, his view is completely clear. The window is even open. Bonus.

Won’t be one of his hardest jobs, at least.

Jongin sighs, leaning back on his hands. He never has the patience for the waiting game. Jung has a room booked in the Ritz-Carlton so Jongin had set himself up on the top floor of the neighbouring, multi-layered parking garage. It’ll be a clean shot.

He lights a cigarette. There’s a crackle of static in his earpiece that ties him to Yixing and Chen, who are stationed in the lobby of the hotel to back him up.

“Visual yet?” asks Jongin. He plays out an imaginary beat with his fingers, tapping along the rifle’s bipod.

Neither of them even acknowledge him for several minutes. Jongin takes it as a no, then.

“All right, he’s just entered the lobby. He’s going to the receptionist desk first,” Yixing says later. “But get ready.”

“Alone?” Jongin kills his cigarette, sitting up.

“Yeah, he’s alone.” Then, like it’s an afterthought, “Shoot straight.”

Jongin rolls his eyes. He lines up his rifle again. Under his breath, he starts humming the opening theme song of Prince of Tennis to fill the silence.

“Wait there’s—“ says Chen. He stops. Then Yixing’s voice comes in, “D.O.’s… right hand guy is here. I see him here, in the lobby.”

Jongin clenches his jaw. “Shit.” This is the last thing he needs. It can’t be a coincidence that D.O. stationed a man at the hotel of a target. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“It’s him,” Chen replies. “He’s dressed down, but it’s definitely him. He’s kind of short, dark hair, black long sleeve and black pants.”

“Hold on, I think Jung is heading to his room now,” Yixing informs. “And D.O.’s guy seems to be leaving.”

“Wait, why?”

“No idea. He just... crossed the street,” Yixing answers. “Come on. Just focus.”

Ten minutes go by before Jung enters the bedroom, and in the scope of Jongin’s rifle. Jongin tenses, then exhales, index finger drifting to the trigger.

Jung keeps moving about his room, bending down and shifting. Jongin never takes chances. He waits until Jung has seated himself down on the edge of his bed, fingers pulling loose the tie around his collar. And then—

Footsteps. A slow  _click, click, click_  against the floor of the parking garage. The hairs on Jongin’s neck curl. He whirls around, panicked.

And comes face to face with Do Kyungsoo.

He has a soft guitar case slung on one shoulder and stares at Jongin impassively, huge owl eyes shifting to the rifle propped on the bipod. Jongin feels his insides turn to lead. Nothing can make its way out of his throat, even as Jongin tries to swallow. There’s no way to misread this situation, after all.

And there is no wind. Everything is a tangible, heavy silence. Jongin waits for fear or repulsion or some mixture of both to creep onto Kyungsoo’s delicate face.

Instead, Kyungsoo hikes up his guitar case a little. Jongin didn’t know he played guitar. “Hi, there,” Kyungsoo says into the silence. He walks forward, crouches next to Jongin. Smiling.

Jongin wets his lip. Unwillingly, he catches sight of Kyungsoo’s thighs as Kyungsoo is bending down. Jongin thinks of the night in the bathroom, and almost chokes. Of all things to be thinking about right now.

A moment too long, Jongin’s brain still hasn’t caught up with his mouth. He’s staring at Kyungsoo, trying to decide why everything feels like it’s in slow motion; why Kyungsoo hasn’t fled the parking garage, screaming and shouting.

And then, Jongin realizes, that should not be the question.

The real question is why Kyungsoo is in the parking garage in the first place; how he accessed the top floor when Jongin knows for a fact that he sealed off the entrance.

 _He’s kind of short, dark hair, black long sleeve and black pants_.

The ground tilts underneath him. Jongin is an idiot, he realizes for the first time, and really, he knows he should have known just from the guitar case. Because Jongin has one just like it, and Jongin does not play guitar. Kyungsoo opens his mouth to say something again.

Jongin cuts him off, quickly, flustered. “You—“

Kyungsoo cocks his head to the side. His expression, taunting.

If Jongin was standing, he thinks his knees probably would have given out by now. He jerks back so fast, he almost knocks his bipod off the ledge.

“Ah, atta boy, Jongin,” Kyungsoo says, appraisingly. He claps his hands together in a mock applause.

There  _is_  no right-hand man, Jongin realizes. And as it turns out, everything he thought he knew about D.O. could not have been more wrong; it wasn’t that no one had ever seen D.O., ever.  _Everyone_  had probably seen him at one point or another. He attended high-profile parties, and weddings.

But no one would suspect that—hiding behind his narrow-shoulders, and immaculate baby face. How clever.

And pretentious.

D.O. does not live in the shadows. He operates right in the open, literally, just under everyone’s clueless-as-fuck noses.

Jongin thinks his ears are ringing, maybe his hands are shaking. He can’t tell. All he knows how to feel is some kind of anger.

“You’re  _him_ ,” Jongin chokes out for the first time. “You’re fucking  _him_. The entire time—in the—“

In the bathroom.

 _Kim Jongin_. The way Kyungsoo whispered his name, breath fanning itself across Jongin’s face, igniting every nerve cell in his body so forcefully that Jongin had sworn he was going to spontaneously combust.

 _Clench_  in the gut. Jongin is about to rip his hair out.

“You came to the Minister’s wedding just to try and find me, didn’t you?” D.O. throws him that smile, and Jongin doesn’t think his body has ever reacted in a more conflicting manner; his brain is stuck feeling angry and played. But the rest of him feels like it’s been set on fire again.

“Little did you know, huh?” D.O. winks. He shrugs his guitar case off his shoulder, places it down gently beside him the way Jongin does when he travels with one, too.

“In case you’re still confused,” D.O. says, mildly. He rolls up the sleeves of his long-sleeve, raises his eyebrows at Jongin, “I don’t play guitar. Let’s put it that way.”

Jongin finally comes to his senses. “This is  _my_  job,” he cuts in, sounding vicious even in his own ears. “I don’t care about whatever meeting you had with EXO, but they gave  _me_ the job, so step aside.”

“Hmm,” replies D.O. He places his hands on Jongin’s rifle. “Nice,” he says, “Pretty lightweight. Smooth. I’ll just use yours, then.”

He presses his eye into the scope, and Jongin realizes what’s happening too late.

D.O. pulls the trigger. Across from them, in the room, Jung’s head snaps back soundlessly, his body falling into the bed. It’s not very gruesome-looking, no gory splatter of blood. Maybe that’s why Jongin is a hit man—it’s really not a very dirty job at all. And D.O. does it with an ease Jongin’s never seen before.

He’s disassembled Jongin’s rifle before Jongin even has time to react. “Hold up, what the fuck did you just do?” He scrambles to his feet, just as D.O. is shrugging his own untouched guitar case back on.

“Just being of help,” D.O. gives Jongin the most shit-eating grin, eyes glinting.

“The reward money—“

D.O. laughs. Jongin is startled at how entrancing that laugh still sounds. “I don’t care about that shit,” he interrupts, lips pursing. Those damn lips. “Maybe I just came here to fuck with you.”

Jongin has the odd feeling that’s the truth, and he doesn’t quite know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

He shudders, almost embarrassingly. D.O’s chipper smile is in place, looking infuriatingly content and amused. “You can take the money,” he shoves his hands into his pockets, a light laugh again, “In fact, I wasn’t even here. Right?” he prompts. It’s teasing.

Jongin feels like he’s being treated like a child. He crosses his arms. “I thought you were ruining my business deal,” he says, pointedly. “Seriously. Fuck you.”

D.O. doesn’t even blink. “‘Fuck you’, huh?” He hums, lowly, a soft noise in his little throat. “I would. Gladly.”

Jongin falters, and D.O.’s lips curl. Too innocent. “But that time in the bathroom,” D.O. continues, voice dipping both in octave and volume. He steps forward, leaning in, so close that Jongin can feel the brush of the man’s warm breath across his jaw line. He speaks slowly, words drawn out like a whisper. Then a smile. Sharing a secret. “You came in your pants too fast.”

The clench in Jongin’s gut almost makes him buckle. His stomach drops, a blossoming of heat across his whole body. When he reaches out and catches Kyungsoo’s wrist, he doesn’t know if it’s because of anger or some wild… something else. Kyungsoo looks over through his eyelashes, blinking. Jongin tightens his grip, opens his mouth. But nothing comes out.

Prying Jongin’s fingers from his wrist gently, Kyungsoo’s touch lingers along the skin. Or maybe Jongin’s entire being feels so hazy that he imagines it. “I’ll see you around,” Kyungsoo smiles. Jongin still doesn’t know what to make of that smile. “ _Kai_.” A two-fingered salute, playful and amused, and then D.O. is turned again, walking away.

Yixing crackles to life in Jongin’s ear. “Tell me what’s happening on your end there. You’ve been too quiet.” He pauses, when Kai doesn’t reply. “You’ve better cleared the fuck out, then.”

D.O.’s lithe, little figure retreats into the deep shadows of the parking garage, until they’ve completely enveloped him and he disappears as if he had never been there to begin with. Not even a lingering trail of a cologne floats around in the thick air as some sort of final mark of his presence.

Jongin shakes his head. Of course not. D.O. leaves nothing behind. A ghost name.

But when Jongin is back on the street, earpiece pulled out, his eyes are flitting, searching for someone he knows he won’t find.

_I’ll see you around._

The voice rings low and husky in Jongin’s head. Then, an image of soft lips and large eyes, embedded with the promise that they’ve only just begun.

**Author's Note:**

> SEQUEL! [Silk Smile](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4716572/chapters/10774040)


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